


pull her apart

by hasitsclaws



Category: From Dusk Till Dawn: The Series
Genre: F/M, Sexual Content, Slight Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-25
Updated: 2014-04-25
Packaged: 2018-01-20 18:40:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1521449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hasitsclaws/pseuds/hasitsclaws
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She doesn't do this.</p><p>She’s supposed to be a good girl, but something about this place makes her feel oh so very bad and she likes it. The wound inside of her doesn't feel so stark, doesn't feel like it's eating her whole-- instead he is and she can't get enough.</p>
            </blockquote>





	pull her apart

**Author's Note:**

> what could have happened if seth hadn't interrupted the kiss in the back of the club.

All Kate can think is she doesn’t do this _she doesn’t do this_.

But the room’s so dark, full of smoke, and the music is sort of just lulling into her bones. She doesn’t do this, and her hands hurt from gripping his jacket so tight and she can feel the heat of his body against hers, the heat of his breath against her ear, the heat of his words shooting straight between her legs. She’s supposed to be a good girl, but something about this place makes her feel oh so very bad and she _likes_ it. The wound inside of her doesn't feel so stark, doesn't feel like it's eating her whole-- instead _he_ is and she can't get enough.

“Kate,” he’s saying, and she’s so heavy-headed that the way he says it makes her name sound dirty, like a blood stain on crisp, white curtains billowing in the morning breeze.

His hand is down the front of her jeans suddenly, fingers curling against the damp fabric of her underwear, the pretty ones with the seashell pink fabric and daisies on them. She’d been so hurried to get dressed that morning-- threat of a gun on the other side of the bathroom door-- she’d hardly know what she was putting on. _Ironic_ , something in her brain tells her, since she’s wearing the underwear she usually wears to make herself feel good even if no one’s ever seen them. Ironic and oh so very wrong.

“Kate.”

She doesn’t do this, but when his fingers skirt the hem of them to the side and slip against slick, warm flesh, all the breath rushes out of her lungs and she didn’t even know that she wasn’t breathing until now. It’d all started with a simple, ‘ _set me free,_ ’ a kiss she hadn’t even meant to give, and now one of his fingers is slipping up inside of her and _oh_.

Richie watches her face like he’s in rapture, like she’s the best thing he’s ever seen. She wonders if he thought that when he first saw her earlier, when he said she was bleeding, her hurt leaking out. She wonders if he sees her bleeding now, at war with herself as she grinds down against his hand, leans into his kiss when he slopes his mouth against hers, tongue persistent until she opens up to him like a flower, one with brambles and thorns.

No one’s ever touched her like this before. With Kyle it was always just kisses-- Frenching him in the back of the church had been the farthest they’d gone and even then she hadn’t felt like this, so overcome with need she’s aching.

Richie makes her wanton, like all of those heroines in the romance novels she read in the middle of the night and would shove under the covers when her mom or dad had come by to ask why she was up so late, like it was a sin. _This_ is a sin, she knows, but she can't stop. And it’s embarrassing, or at least it should be. This man has threatened her family, what’s left of it, anyways. He’s messed up, insane. She’s grabbing at his back and can feel the gun he used against her tucked in the waistband of his pants, something in her head saying take it, get away get away _get away_.

But she can’t.

She doesn’t do this and his touch feels like an electric wire zipping through her veins as he pushes a second finger into her; she keens against his mouth. Richie stops kissing her then, pulls back and she can see his eyes behind his glasses, so completely dark she can’t tell the iris from the pupil.

“You’re so wet,” he says to her, and the words make her blush from head to toe. “You’re wet just for me, and you’re so beautiful. I can see it, I’ve seen it since the start.”

“Richie,” she says, doesn’t know what else to do.

“Shh,” he croons to her, uses his free hand to tuck a piece of hair behind her ear like this is all so innocent, like she isn’t letting him finger her in the back of some sleazy strip bar, like he isn’t holding her hostage here and she isn’t wanting him to touch her until she’s as crazy as he is, get all inside of her and pull her apart. “I have you, it’s okay.”

He kisses her again and pumps his fingers harder, quicker. She tries to stay quiet, but there's a sure-tell heat building low in her stomach and when his thumb starts making circles at the point where all of her nerves are stitched together she can’t help but whimper, bite down against his lip that’s sliding between her teeth. Richie pulls back again, fingers slipping deeper inside of her as he licks at the blood on his mouth, fresh and red and crisp.

“I’m sorry,” she tries to say, because she doesn’t do this and she didn’t want to hurt him and--

“Lick it,” he says.

“What?” she answers, and when he presses a third finger into her moans, the stretch too much and it _hurts_ but it feels so good and she--

“Lick it,” he says again, before he kisses her something violent.

She laps at the blood on his mouth like he wants, Richie groaning into the kiss and she can feel the press of his erection against her hip as he grinds himself into her in tandem to his fingers, puts his free hand on the back of her head and holds her to him. It tastes like copper and heat and want and the way he’s looking at her as his head dips back, like she’s a miracle or a new dawn, it has her spasming around his touch, coming apart in a way she didn’t know she could.

When she comes down from it, he’s still touching her, still rubbing himself into her side, letting her ride it out, riding it out himself. She doesn’t do this, but she says his name and he just looks at her.

“You’re not leaving,” he says then, takes his hand out of the front of her jeans; she watches breathlessly as he brings his fingers to his mouth and sucks, makes a sound somewhere between a moan and a sort of hum. “You’re not leaving,” he says again, after he’s finished. “You’re not leaving me.”

She doesn’t do this, but she says, “Okay,” without a second thought.

And Richie smiles, this big, boyish smile that takes up his whole face. “Kate--” he starts, but is interrupted.

“Preacher’s daughter strikes again.”

Both of them turn, find Seth there leaning against the doorway with this look on his face, somewhere between jealousy and anger and _need_ and _oh my God_ , she knows that he was watching, that he saw and she suddenly realizes what’s just happened, that none of this makes sense.

She runs from the room before anyone has the chance to stop her, rushes out into light and sound and clarity.

“Kate!” Richie is calling after her, but she keeps running.

She doesn’t do this, but she did it anyways.


End file.
